Luna Lovegood Was Here
by Frozen-Passion
Summary: [Oneshot] “In the end, Neville Longbottom was the only significant reminder that Luna Lovegood was here.” He didn’t know that by saving her on the battlefield she would in turn save his life. [Mild LN]


**Luna Lovegood Was Here**

_Summary: One-shot "In the end, Neville Longbottom was the only significant reminder that Luna Lovegood was here." He didn't know that by saving her on the battlefield she would in turn save his life. Mild LN_

_Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise I own nothing!_

The final battle had taken place in the summer; right after Neville had gradated from Hogwarts. Five long months had passed since then, but still Neville remembered every moment of that battle. There were so many memories that time could never erase. He could still smell rotting corpses, and flesh boiling under the scorching summer sun. He could still hear the cries of agony and the harsh shrieks of triumph. The cruel laughter that often rang out after a death still resonated clearly through his mind. At night he would still see visions of the dead, lying where they had fallen upon the bloodstained grass. It was the image of utter hopelessness and despair, and it would forever be implanted into his brain.

At night he would be transported back onto that field, covered in a sticky crimson liquid. He would feel the sun beating ruthlessly against his worn body, making him feel as if he were burning up from an unseen fire. Jets of colored lights raced past his unfocused eyes and then he felt the pain. Waves upon waves of pain, crashing upon his body like the sea crashes upon the cliffs when it meets its shoreline. He thrashed about on the ground, adding to the mayhem surrounding him with his own cries of agony. And then it was all over, and his weary body struggled to his feet, if only to continue fighting. The memories of that battle, as vivid and fresh as if they had been made yesterday, haunted his dreams, near every night of his troubled sleep.

During the day he would go through the motions of life, eyes unfocused, oblivious to all going on around him. He kept himself busy, less he find time in his days to reflect and remember. He blocked out, as best he could, the screams that he still heard in his head, haunting and tormenting. He avoided closing his eyes so that no visions of his horror-filled memories would flash in the blackness. Often he found himself rinsing his hands beneath scolding hot water, attempting to cleanse himself of blood that was no longer there staining his hands. He lived his life as a shadow, only an empty shell of his former, unremarkable self.

After the war ended and the days dawdled slowly past, he grew pale-unnaturally pale. And he was once, long before the Final Battle, described as chubby, but after the battle he became thin- unhealthy thin. He had bags under his eyes, testimony to his lack of sleep. His eyes held no emotion yet they seemed empty, and haunted. His chestnut hair lay flat against his skull, only a faded memory of the wavy shine it had once been. During the war some part of him died. Those who still saw him whispered that it had been his spirit, his hope and his will to live that had died right along side of his only remaining family and friends. Those who knew his loss, as they keenly felt many of the same losses, could not fault him for this.

After the war, she had been the only light in his dark existence. The irony of it had been the fact that the war had given her to him. She had saved him, healed wounds so that at first glance they would be unnoticeable, though a faint trace of them still lived in his eyes. There had been a time when all he felt was the sheer terror and the unbearable pain during his every waking moment and he had relived them in every sleeping moment. But she had given him something else to feel.

It was at the end of the Final Battle when it had happened. He should have been celebrating, at least smiling at the fact that the light had won, but he couldn't. He couldn't because the only thing running through his mind was a list of all the people he had seen laying on the field, dead prematurely. He couldn't feel happiness, knowing that so many had died and he unremarkable, and unworthy of life had survived. They only thing he felt was an overpowering weariness. All he wanted to do was lay down on the sickening crimson field, close his eyes and sleep. Hopefully we would never wake up. Neville had been in the beginning stages of giving up on life and it was as he was stumbling through the carnage of the battlefield and the darkness of his mind, that he happened upon her.

She was swaying slightly, propped up against another body and she was drenched in her own blood. Her once dirty-blonde hair was dirtied and matted with the same crimson liquid pooling at her feet. Her faced was painted with dirt and tiny scratches and minute cuts marred her pale face. He would have never recognized her if it hadn't been for her eyes. Though partly obscured by her half-closed eyelids, her pale blue eyes still sparkled. It had been the only thing familiar in the world of blood and pain. That is why he didn't hesitate the smallest of seconds when she rasped out, between parched lips, two pleading words. Help me.

How he got her to a hospital or a healer he never remembered, but the important thing was that he had. Whenever he attempted to recall the memory his efforts were rewarded with vague flashes of color (crimson being the most prominent) and distorted whimpers of pain and shrill screams of agony. And then there had been blackness. Cool, comforting, pure blackness overwhelming and overriding the senses. A blackness that never had eagerly waited for, for what felt like an eternity.

And then he woke up in an unfamiliar and strange bed two days later. The first thing his foggy mind registered was the sickeningly bold smell of weak coffee, like someone had started making it and then got sidetracked along the way, forgetting to finish it. And then the spicy smell of Pepper-up potions combined with the stinging scent of bleach assaulted his nose in the most bizarre combination of aromas known to mankind. It was neither repulsive nor pleasant. It was just there.

And then his eyes slowly began focusing on bleached sheets of white cloth stained by crimson droplets of blood. The sight made him blanch, and if his stomach hadn't been empty he would have hurled. Then suddenly noises, and colors and bandages and a sickly taste in his mouth all began assailing his senses, fighting for comprehension in his muddled mind. For the first time he took notice of the harried and exhausted healers rushing to and fro between makeshift beds, nerves frazzled, living of coffee, trying to save lives while weaving through thick throngs of aimless survivors. Bandaged patients lay in beds, or on couches and chairs, the floor or any place where the healers could find room. Blood stained the carpet, the walls, the sheets, the tiles the curtains, the windows. It was everywhere shining brightly against the weak sunlight streaming through a multitude of windows.

In the thongs of relevantly healthy people, looking upon the chaotic scene in utter despair, Neville could pick out a few faces but if any one was to ask them their names he could not answer. His mind was to vulnerable to the bustle and death and stale fear handing thick in the air to comprehend anything of mere importance. Words were only mumbled things sliding through his ear. He could not understand anything anyone said. The healthy shed tears, or whispered to friends, family or loved ones they feared they might never see again. Rivals and mere acquaintances bonded in fear of loss and the pain of losing. All around him there were people weeping for others, but he noted bitterly in the back of his mind that no one was there to cry for him. No one cared. And then out of all the confusion and disarray came one single light. Her voice.

Her voice, cleared than day, brought him out of his bitter thoughts and his confusion. He turned his head ever so slightly to the right and her face flooded his still unsteady vision. She wore and clean, bleached hospitable gown but her hair was still knotted and matted down with blood and dirt. And then there were her eyes. They were the color of day and sparkled like they always had and he silently hoped always would. Though all the pain and death and war she still had life and it showed in her eyes. Neville dimly registered that image, that moment in his mind as being the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Nothing would ever quite compare to the loveliness of her standing in a hospitable gown with dirty hair just off to the side. Not even Fleur Delacour's beauty.

To this very day he could not, for the life of him, remember what they spoke of, yet he remember that somehow, in all the pandemonium that was the hospitable, he found a certain peace in spending his days talking to her about everything that was really nothing important at all.

He was released from the hospital three days after he woke up. By that time half the makeshift beds had been emptied of their patients. Some had been healed but most had died. When he left the hospital and old, worn witch told him they didn't expect her to survive. He remembered looking back at the newly clean and warmly grinning girl he had saved on the battlefield. He could not believe that this girl, so seemingly full of life was dying. He could not picture dying in a hospital as her fate. She was too young, and too warm and too kind. As he watched her for a moment he made a promise to himself to visit her everyday until she was released.

And Neville did just that for the next four months. Every time he visited a fewer amount of beds would be occupied. Every time he visited someone else had died. And every time he visited he wondered when it would be her time. Everyday for at least an hour he would sit by her bed and talk to her about everything and nothing at all. And when it was time for his visit to end he would leave with the image of her sparkling eyes in his mind. But like always when he closed his eyes images of the cold scenes of war would erase those warm gentle eyes.

Everyday for four long months he visited her in the hospital but of all those days one single day stands out the most. It was late October, just days before Halloween. Neville remembered trudging through thick piles of brown and golden, orange and red leaves. They crackled and snapped beneath his heavy feet, as he walked through them. It was the only noise on his otherwise silent journey.

That day had started out different. Neville was feeling slightly sick and his dreams that night had been the worst yet. He grew more apprehensive with each additional step he took towards the hospital. He did not want to know what was waiting for him their, behind the wide, white double-doors. When he arrived the atmosphere seemed much more somber than usual, and it seemed quiet, much too quiet. Neville found himself hurrying to her room. Moments later he plopped himself down on his customary chair, relieved that she was still there. Yet there was something different about her today- something off. She appeared paler than usual, more fragile than she ever had before. When he arrived she was asleep. She never was asleep when he came. He was worried about her.

He watched her sleep for many moments. He never was quite sure how long but he knew it had been a long time, longer than all his other visits. But never once did he leave her side. When the crystal droplets of water leaked from her eyes he silently took her hand in his. It was pale, and deathly thin. The light that she excluded when she was awake seemed to have vanished as she slept. If not for the warmth of her hand and the shallow rise and fall of her chest he would have thought her gone.

He sat by her side for a great many hours before she finally opened her eyes. When she saw him, she smiled, her eyes sparkled, and the room was filled with her light and warmth again. They didn't speak a word for many long moments. It was she who finally broke the thick silence. She asked him if her would return tomorrow. He promised her he would. She smiled and lay back on the pillows with a slight nod of her head. With that he headed to the door, looking back at her only once, marveling at her beauty, and giving her a small smile. That was the only visit where he actually remembered what they had spoken of.

Just as Neville had promised he came to the hospital the following morning. He silently entered the room and sat in his chair. He looked upon her bed with a small smile. She had done so much for him without either of them really realizing it. She had repaired his imagination, which had long ago been broken. She taught him to believe in good and know that it was always out there and would always conquer evil. She taught him never to give up hope or give up on life because in the end things always worked out. She made him fight, if not for himself than for everyone else in the world. He knew now that he could move on without betraying everyone's memory. He wasn't forgetting, just letting go.

They were both so alike and yet they were so different. She showed him so much and ultimately saved him. She taught him to live and to give life a second chance. He now gave the unusual more than just a passing glance. She had taught him how to truly love. Yet she also proved his theory correct. She proved that no matter how beautiful and timeless love seemed it always ended. Love was nothing more than a candy-coated nightmare. It was sweet until it reached the painful end.

In time you always loose the ones you love. After all, he had lost her. She was now out there somewhere, flying with the wind and dancing in the autumn leaves. In the end Neville Longbottom was the only significant reminder that Luna Lovegood was indeed here.

_--FIN--_

* * *

_Well that turned out rather nicely. I've had this writen for forever and I'm so glad I finally got around to typing it up. I hope you enjoyed this story. It's got, in my opinion one of the cutest couples, and two of my favorite charecters. Review and tell me what you think._

-Frozen-Passion-


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